


The Good Son

by flutter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst Dean Winchester, Brooding, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-17
Updated: 2006-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:16:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flutter/pseuds/flutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean sits in a bar, broods, and thinks. We all know it happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Son

**Author's Note:**

> (Past dialogue reference[s] up to, and including, 2x01.)

“Did Dad say anything to you?”  
  
Dean sat at a corner table in a small bar outside of Phoenix. Shades of Gray, the sign read, and Dean nearly laughed at the coincidence before walking in and straight to the furthest corner.  
  
He left Sam at the hotel, content with the knowledge that if anything went wrong his kid brother could take care of himself. Providing any unforeseen problem, Dean always had the sensors that would alert him. After those vampires grabbed Sammy, Dean wasn’t taking too much for granted. It called for him to be on, all of the time, never letting his guard down.  
  
Fucking vampires. Fucking witches and demons. Fucking Sammy. In the end it all comes back to him. His father knew it and now Dean knows too. What he wouldn’t give not to.  
  
Game face, right?  
  
Keep it on, protect Sammy. That was the job, the _real_ job. Hunting evil, well…that was the job too, but second to Sammy.  
  
Dean traced the bottom of his bottle across the ring it left on the table. Where he slid the amber glass, stubby fat streaks of condensation and dirt followed.  
  
Sam’s voice whispered in the back of Dean’s mind again, repeating the same question it asked morning, noon and night.  
  
“Did Dad say anything to you?”  
  
No, Dad didn’t say any _thing_ to him. Dad had said _it_ —the reason, the real reason, the Demon killed their mother. The reason why Jess was dead, why their father was now dead…  
  
Why they still had to fear what was coming next.  
  
Dean lifted the bottle to his lips, hesitated when he thought of his father’s words.  
  
God _dammit_. As hard as he slammed the bottle onto the tabletop, the sound didn’t travel much further than the middle of the room. Too many people, too much noise, and no one heard a damned thing.  
  
He caught the eye of the bartender in the mirrors that leaned at every ceiling point. They contact held just long enough for Dean to lift his beer and signal for another.  
  
When the bartender grabbed a bottle from beneath the counter and tapped the top off before handing it off to a waitress, Dean looked down at his hands—at where he rolled the now empty bottle between his palms before sliding it aside.  
  
He no more than nodded to the waitress in thanks. Had this been any other night, he may have winked and crooked a smile at her, saluting her with a tilt of his newly deposited beer. But tonight was not that kind of night, and Dean fought the desire to squeeze this bottle with his fingers until it broke, just as he fought it the first four bottles.  
  
Pain in new shapes was still pain, but each attempt and success at finding an outlet should have felt different. They shouldn’t have all been shaped like his father. They shouldn’t have all felt as though he was being handed something he couldn’t handle.  
  
So, yeah, Dad had said something. He said too much for Dean’s liking, and none of it to Sam. Hell, Sammy didn’t know anything and Dean knew enough to hope the beer in his hand, followed by six or seven more, would help him forget it all.  
  
Dad said that Sammy wasn’t to know. So the knowledge was for Dean to know and for Dean to hold. He was the Hunter—a hunter of hunters—while Sam, unknowingly, was the Hunted. And no one would get to his little brother. No one, and definitely not a filthy fucking demon, would touch his brother without going through Dean. He promised.  
  
He made that promise each night his father left them to track, to hunt, and to kill. And Dean made that promise again as his father stood over him at the hospital, hovering at his ear, telling him—telling him what Sammy really was, what the Demon really wanted.  
  
His fingers gripped the bottle too tightly. Dean knew the glass had given way but felt nothing; nothing new.Nothing that wasn’t already familiar. He swung his arm across the table as he stood, hitting and scattering his discarded empties that sat on the table. And when they hit the wall next to him, he didn’t bother to brush away what glass flew and cut his cheek.  
  
He stepped away from the table and hunched into his jacket before walking out of the bar.  
  
Sammy needed him. Not right this moment, but for always.  
  
So, Dean would do this right. He’d get to their shared room, wash the blood and glass from his hands and maybe shower some of the beer away. The ache would just have to stay. It would keep him awake, keep him sharp.  
  
Keep him ready to protect.  
  
He was the good son. The one who always followed orders, always listened. There was never any reason to question--never would be.  
  
Not when it meant he could lose Sammy too.


End file.
